


My Body's Broken, Yours is Spent

by Alcoholic_kangaroo



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Underage Prostitution, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_kangaroo
Summary: Where did L find Near anyway?
Relationships: L/Near | Nate River
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	My Body's Broken, Yours is Spent

**Author's Note:**

> My pedo ass is at it again. 
> 
> Actually though, this one was all but finished about a month ago. I just went through and added a bit here and there and edited it so I could stop looking at it.

The first time L Lawliet laid eyes upon the divine was in a seedy brothel in Westminster.

L’s sexual appetite has always leaned towards the taboo. At the age of sixteen he lost his virginity to a cotton-candy-scented girl at the orphanage; a promiscuous young blond of only twelve with a pixie face who sucked seductively on a lollypop whenever she was in the same room as any of the older boys and bragged to anybody who would listen about seducing her mom’s boyfriends behind her back.

L had never been fooled by the boasts. He had known that the girl was much too young to ever have done such a thing and the more likely explanation was that the boyfriends had either molested her or her mother had pimped her out to them. She was a victim of years of pro-longed child abuse and would probably grow up with a number of psychological problems, addictions, and a deep sense of self-loathing.

L just didn’t care. She was vapid and air-headed and bimbo-blond, and L had just wanted to stick his teenage cock in something, and she had been there and willing.

Morality has never been one of L’s top priorities. Other concerns have always come first: his own pleasure, his own interests, being right, winning. Oh, L would arm himself with the terms of morality when it suited his need, when he needed a right to battle against the other’s wrong, but it was not something he used to guide him through his life. He used morality like a hypocritical Christian used the Bible to justify his prejudice.

It was this ability to divide his wants from his ethics that allowed L to spend a morning tracking down criminals and the evening visiting a brothel with a notorious reputation.

“Boys, girls, grade school, teen, take your pick,” the man at the front door had promised. He had been ugly with a large nose and a gold tooth and L doubted he had ever worked at this place like so many of the older employees tend to do. He imagines that even as a small boy this man had been repugnant to lay eyes upon. “As long as you have the money then you have reached the garden of earthly delights.”

It was far from L’s first visit to such a place and his tastes ran wide. He preferred boys, but sometimes he was in the mood for a girl. He liked pre-teens best, that in between time when they’re still soft but beginning to slim down, their skinny arms and tiny waists calling for him to encircle his large hands around them. But sometimes he craves the baby softness of a younger child or the gawky build of a teenager.

That night he had not entered with any particular cravings. He just wanted a soft, warm child to pound into and when the madame asked him what he wished for he just told her he was not in the mood for teenagers today and she nodded. Then she led him upstairs, explaining the “young ones” are kept upstairs where the local authorities never venture. L had understood the implications of these words. The police who visited for the bribe money only went so far as the entrance hall.

“Now if you could tell me if you would prefer a girl or a boy that would help me find the perfect partner for you for the night,” the woman nudged. She looked middle age but was most likely only in her thirties, worn down by years of bad choices and illegal substances. Still, she flirted lightly with L, touching his arm, throwing her hair back with one hand, and he wondered if she always flirted with her guests or if something about him stood out to her. Maybe his reputation proceeded him as this house had been recommended to him by one of his regular establishments from York. They were sister houses, from what he had gathered.

“Maybe a boy would be nice,” he considers, “But I am not very picky about the gender. Please, just show me the best you have, it does not matter.”

They stumbled upon him in the dimly lit corridor, halfway hidden behind a decorative table covered with unopened condoms and glasses already full of cheap but potent red wine. Translucent paper skin, baby-powder curls, awkwardly dressed in a young girl’s Catholic school girl uniform. He had been crouching in the hallway of the house, playing a game of cards on the floor, seemingly unaware or perhaps just unconcerned about the fact he was wearing a skirt and the knee pulled up to his chest revealed the cotton panties and bulge behind them to anybody who passed.

He looked about as natural as a bear in a tuxedo, wearing the scanty little scraps of cloth. The brothel clearly had no idea how to advertise their own employees. He was so very boyish, so very pure, that he would be a thousand times more appealing in the garb of a little league batter or maybe dressed up as an old fashioned newspaper boy. Something that still retained its wholesome nature, not this outlandish schoolgirl outfit which has been done to death.

“I’ll take that one,” L had stated, pointing out the barely visible creature the moment he saw him. The shadows of the wall sconce above him gave him a ghostly appearance, the shadows beneath his eyes almost skeletal. It had only been seconds, but his eyes darted, drinking in every detail as if the boy were a painting he had studied for hours. The cleanliness of his cotton white panties, the way his bony finger twirled around his own white curl, the fact he was not actually playing solitaire but rather seemed to be teaching himself to count cards, if L was not mistaken.

The madame had hesitated. Told him he was a “discount.” Sold out to cheap uni kids who just wanted a hole for forty pounds. Not a good fit for somebody as influential and rich as himself.

“There’s something wrong with him. Slow, I think,” she had apologized, trying to pull him along without outright attempting to drag him down the hallway. “Never seems to be listening, can’t be trained. I really do think Anton will be more to your liking. Or Pierre if you lean towards the waifs. Pierre is just a slip of a thing; I assure you you’ll enjoy him immensely.”

Some people are so unobservant. They can have a literal angel fallen from heaven sitting before them and not even bat an eye. Jesus himself could pop up right now, take this boy by his pale arm, and lead him off with an apology that he had escaped from heaven, the little minx, and L would not question it at all.

In the end, L refused to accept anyone else but the boy. Nate, she said his name was, as if it were a curse word on her tongue. Son of one of their girls. Died giving birth to the boy, stuck them with him for life now, and not worth the money they pay for his upkeep.

“Don’t ask for a refund,” she warns, setting the keys in L’s open palm. He understood that meant that others must often do so. For this little creature with his pretty face and mournful eyes who they only shelled out forty pounds for to begin with. L wondered what he had gotten himself into.

Once inside the room, L quickly frees the boy of his fetish wrappings, removing the little skirt and knotted top as gingerly as if he were peeling rotten trash from the boy. He tosses the outfit aside and wipes his hand on his jeans, feeling as if he had sullied himself by just touching the garish garments. Then he reaches for the boy. This beautiful boy who is clean and pure and as white as newly fallen snow.

He is about as unresponsive as the woman claimed. About, but not totally. He doesn’t moan or wrap his arms around L or beg for more like the other boys, but L knows what he is looking for and those boys lied more than Nate’s body is capable of doing. Their words, their moans, those were fake. They were reciting a script. But Nate has no such script and the he doesn’t speak; the only dialogue is spoken between their bodies.

L catches the slight hitch in his breathing. Notices the tensing of the muscles in the boy’s calves, as unused and atrophied as they are. They are thin as bird bones in L’s hand. As if the boy has never gone on a decent walk in his life. Maybe he hasn’t. Maybe he has never left this house.

L wants to fuck him. Of course, he wants to fuck him, that’s why he came to this brothel renowned for its shady dealings and cute kids, but he also is afraid of shutting the boy down completely. He cums between his thighs instead, the boy on his lap, touching the small cock in a way he knows feels good for the child. Even though the boy is too young to ejaculate and refuses to show any physical signs that he orgasms besides the undisguisable twitching of his little penis. It’s unbelievably cute and as frosted pink as the roses that grow along the entranceway at Wammy’s House.

Immediately after the boy finishes, L holds him tight in that position, pressing his forehead against the boy’s soft curls. His lips brush against the boy’s ear. He smells like fresh cotton which is so different than all the other boys L has had in the past. They have smelled of sin. Of other men’s alcohol and smoke and semen. Or they smelled of the childish elements of seduction – lollypops, bubblegum, chocolate. The candy they would suck on and nibble as they waited to be picked for the night, displaying openly and lewdly what their mouths were capable of doing for potential clients.

Not Nate. He smells as clean and pure as a swaddled baby. Something about it causes an ache in L’s chest and he wants to clean him up and tuck him into bed. Not the boy's own soiled bedding but a clean bed, the one in his own hotel room, maybe. With the ocean paintings on the walls and the cream comforter and the lemon spray that still lingered in the air.

“How old are you, Nate?” L asks, still touching the boy despite the fact his arousal is gone. He can’t help but touch him. It’s like wanting to touch any small, cute animal. He wants to kiss his hair and nuzzle him, but Nate does not seem to show any interest in such a thing, so he just ghosts his fingers up and down along the boy’s spine, feeling the little nubs of each vertebra.

“Nine,” the boy answer. He offers no further information. He is not trying to get away, but he is doing absolutely nothing to reciprocate L’s touches. Unmovable and white as a porcelain doll.

“Do you want me to let you go?” L asks, already knowing the answer before the question even leaves his mouth.

“That would be preferable.”

L does. The boy sinks back onto the floor, again pulling his knee up to his chest. He doesn’t seem concerned about L’s cum on his thighs or the fact he is naked. He reaches for some knock off Legos in a box beside his bed and immediately begins to build something. He doesn’t look at L, but L looks at him. He looks at him for a very long time. He studies the boy, the way he moves, the way he deliberates over his toys. He watches the way his eyes move but not his head, as if he were a reptile conserving energy.

He notices the marks on the boy’s body he hadn’t noticed before. There’s a bruise on his inner left thigh. A still fading bite mark on his right shoulder. If anything, these imperfections just accentuate the rest of him. How smooth and pale and perfect his skin is. No freckles, no moles, no fading tan marks. He is completely white from head to toe as if he has never been exposed to the sunlight. As if he had been dusted completely over with baby powder, like a pair of surgical gloves.

The room is too dark, too empty for a small boy of his demeanor. There are a few toys but no posters, no paintings. The walls are dark olive green, the paint chipping. Probably laden with lead. His bedding had already smelled of sex before the boy had even led him, shuffling, into the room. L finds it a shame that the boy has to sleep in the same bed he works. The blankets are soft, at least, and the bed large, but that is probably owing more to the needs of his clients than his own.

The floor is wooden. A shag carpet sits only a few feet from the boy, but he makes no attempt to sit on it. Doesn’t seem to notice how cold or hard the floor is. The cum, L’s cum, slides down his thighs and pools on the wood, cooling. The boy makes no move to wipe it off.

L continues to watch him. Watches him snap together pieces. Watches something begin to form with no slowing or halting. No breaks to stop and consider the next piece. It’s a continuous creation. Some children would perhaps create such a project in pieces, combining them together in the end. But this boy does no such thing and within minutes the scattering of colorful blocks has taken on the shape of Westminster Abbey.

Maybe they do allow him outside, after all. Or maybe they only let him out at night, which would account for his paleness. Maybe they send him out on the streets in the wee hours of the morning, looking for his own clients to earn his keep. Or maybe he’s just seen flyers visitors have left behind. L is unsure which prospect is more depressing. A boy like this, a godling like this, should not be forced to walk the streets. But he should also be outside somewhere, frolicking in some ancient meadow with nymphs and river goddesses. He is the same color as a marble statue of Eros that L once saw in a museum in Rome.

“That’s a very impressive sculpture,” he tells the boy. And it is. The replica is as exact as one could make it with the limited materials and the boy seems to have a photographic memory of the building. “Do you like building things?”

The child shrugs. His face remains expressionless. As white and smooth as an undisturbed glass of milk. L slips down onto the floor beside him, crouching into a somewhat similar position as the boy, however pulling both his knees to his chest rather than just one. He is also naked but his penis is soft between his thighs. The boy’s gray eyes flicker towards him for just a second, barely visible below his fine white eyebrows, looking towards that area. Trying to determine if L wanted another round, perhaps. When he sees L is not hard and not touching himself to attempt to become so he turns back to his blocks.

“Nate, is it alright if I ask you a few questions?” L asks, politely, respectfully. Trying to make the boy feel as if he were being talked to by an equal not an owner.

“If you wish. I cannot guarantee that I will answer them.”

“Fair enough,” L concurs. He wiggles his toes, trying to make himself comfortable. “Alright. Here is the first one: If you have a cube, each side two inches by two inches, how many square inches are there in total on all eight sides?”

“Cubes have six sides,” the boy responds immediately, not missing a beat, not even taking one second to think about it. It was an easy enough question, but the boy _is_ also only nine.

“Correct,” L confirms. Then he moves on with the next one. “A man is in a plane crash. He lands on a deserted island with only his worst enemy surviving alongside him. They both agree to cut the island in two. How do they make sure they cut the island half in a way that they can both agree upon?”

Again, the boy does not stop to consider his answer. Does not dwell over the question. “One person marks the line dividing the island, the other person chooses which side they want. Neither can complain that the sides are unequal.”

“Correct. If you had a secret and were afraid you would accidentally let it slip, how would you make absolutely certain you wouldn’t do so?”

“Just tell it,” Nate says, and this time he looks up at L and L notices something in his eyes. Not joy exactly. Satisfaction, maybe. The satisfaction one gets from being right. “It’s not an accident if you do it deliberately and it is no longer a secret then.”

“Correct. Okay, just one more, Nate. Do you want to leave here?”

“It makes no difference to me either way,” the boy responds, and now that light is no longer in his eyes. The riddles had at least kept him somewhat interested but this question seems to bore him. He goes back to his game.

“Wouldn’t you prefer to not be forced to have sex with strange men every night?” L prods, wondering if this boy could honestly show so little interest in escaping this place. It might be the garden of earthly delights for grown men but for the children inside it he doubts it could be anything more than an everlasting purgatory.

“It does not bother me. It’s what I am used to. Though maybe it would be nice to be allowed to choose my own clothes.”

L smiles, appreciating the answer. The straightforwardness of it and the honesty of it. It occurs to him that Nate probably assumes that L wants to buy him like you buy cattle. He probably assumes that L wants to lock him up inside his room and keep him as his own, personal sex toy, and honestly, the idea is tempting. He is a very, very cute boy and he finds he is already getting hard again, thinking of the idea. As Nate continues to play with his toys L stays where he is, mulling the idea in his mind.

Is that something he could do? He has his own house in London that would do in a pinch. He doubts the boy would try to run and his maid there is very discrete. If he told her that he had adopted this boy and she was in charge of feeding him and keeping him clean when he was gone, he is sure she would do so without question. He might even be able to take him places with him, on his cases. Squirrel him away in various hotel rooms so that when he was done with his investigations for the night he could return to his room and the little cherub would be there waiting for him, hot and wet and open as he instructed him to be.

He could instruct the boy to call him daddy in public and that sends delicious shivers down L’s spine for reasons he cannot imagine. He never wished to have children before but the perverseness of such an act is enticing.

But he could never get away with such a thing. Not truly. Watari would know. Watari always knows. Even if Watari turns a blind eye to his visits to these establishments he would not condone L keeping a child around for his pleasure. And besides, it would be such a waste of this boy’s mind. He is not made to warm the beds of men. He is made for greater things.

But those things can wait for morning. He reaches for him and Nate sets down his toy, already expecting it. What a clever little thing he is. How precocious. How brilliant.

How beautiful. This might be L’s only chance to do everything he wants to him. He sets him back on the bed, on his stomach, and uses his mouth on him. He is as clean and tight as any child that has not been penetrated by a thousand men’s cocks and L enjoys opening him up. He always enjoys this part. The way the children squirm and cry. The way their little holes flutter around his tongue then his fingers. No child is supposed to be touched in this way and even these ones, the ones who have been violated to the point their innocence is all but gone, feel pain at the intrusion.

But L knows how to make it feel good as well and he always makes sure it feels good for them. He is too rough with Nate though. Too eager to shove himself inside him. He doesn’t slide in with one smooth motion but gets stuck halfway through and has to pull back, adjusting himself, then push in again, then again. Nate cries beneath him, grabbing onto the blankets, but he does not try to get away. He is far too used to this kind of pain for a boy of nine.

“I’m going to take you away from here,” he pants into the boy’s ear once he has finally found his way inside him. Nate’s entire body is rigid with pain. “Remember the way I feel inside you right now because this is going to be the last time you feel a dick inside you.”

There is always the possibility that the boy may wish to do this again, someday, as a man. With somebody he loves. But L does not see this boy’s future ever heading in that direction. This boy is not a sensual creature and his childhood will leave a scar upon his mind as deeply as it has left one upon his body. It is likely this boy will never have sex again in his life, man or woman.

That is why L has to make sure the boy remembers this moment. Very few people ever remember clearly the last time they had sex in their life, but this boy will remember it. He wants the boy to ache for days afterwards. He wants him to be in pain when he touches his sore, abused asshole, and he wants him to think of L when he does so. He wants him to know that he is L’s. No matter what the future offers him going forward, this boy belongs to L.

They don’t argue when L says he wishes to buy Nate the next morning. The madame seems surprised by how much he is willing to give her for the boy. They really have no idea what they had in that dingy back room. He lies as he is used to doing. He tells her he just wants a child to keep at home that would not fight or try to run. He tells her he may break Nate’s legs if he attempts such a feat. He tells her he may have the boy’s vocal cords cut if he tries to yell for help. He will keep the boy in chains in a dark room and use him until there is nothing left to use.

She says that is a good plan and offers him a discount on his next visit.

He carries the boy out of the brothel himself. He is wearing a pair of white pajamas and a pair of white socks and nothing else. He carries nothing else. He brings nothing else. He makes a small, airy gasping noise when L sets him down in the limo’s back seat. He is still in pain and when L lifts him out of the limo a short while later there is blood on the seat.

Before them lies a large, rustic looking building with painted glass windows and pale pink roses along a set of wide stairs. Nate looks up at it, shivering, and L is absolutely certain that despite the boy’s interest in architecture he has never actually been in any other building besides that wretched brothel.

“Welcome to Wammy’s House,” L says, solemnly, his hand touching the boy’s shoulder. “If anybody asks, your name is Near.”

**Author's Note:**

> Can you believe some pussy on anon was calling me out for my bullshit writing on my other fic 😂


End file.
